A Cup of Tea With You
by Ista
Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty meet for a nice chat over a nice cup of tea.


Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything _Sherlock_ related.

Other Stuff: This is the first piece of fanfiction I have completed and posted in a decade. My former pen name was Ista of the Dreamers. The crazygood quality and dazzling enchantment of recent television shows have unleashed a bout of inspiration. Indulge me, and enjoy.

A Cup of Tea With You

Sherlock Holmes ambled into the Café Roma and immediately took in everything all at once. Breathing deeply, he caught the nuances of a hundred different scents. There was the obvious aroma of espresso and fresh coffee beans on display in plastic bins. There was the floral trio to his left, a stale after-shave belonging to the young man on his right, the onion and garlic from the currently grilling panini, and the sharp smell of fresh-paint-on-clothes from the custodian on his lunch break. Among the distinct odors, one in particular caused him to smile.

Moriarty was there.

Like a stroll through a florist's shop, the smells were almost as important as the sights. To Holmes, his shrewd gaze picked up on minute details as quickly as it took most people to shake someone's hand. The fairy lights twinkling overhead created a halo effect on the patrons below them. The trio of middle-aged women alone could tell a multitude of stories without opening their mouths. One of the women was having an affair with someone else in the café. Sherlock glanced at the custodian. Of course. As for the man with the after-shave, he was frantically finishing an essay that was due within the hour. Sipping on his cappuccino and typing at the same time, Sherlock was 95% certain that it was a paper on psychology.

Then came the sounds-not only the whir of the espresso machines, but the clink of silverware, soft classical soundtrack (Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, 1st Movement), and the musical trills of human chatter.

"I thought you told her that she was a—"

"A chai latte, small."

"So that was _before_ you bought the dog?"

"No, please don't tell me that. Stop it!"

"Sherlock . . . "

The word, spoken only at a whisper's volume, rolled into Holmes' ears like thunder.

"I've been waiting for you."

Sherlock's eyes swiveled to the far dark left corner of the café. A man was sitting, hunched over, dressed in a black sweater and wearing a black cap. Holmes strode over to this figure purposefully, making sure no one else was watching him.

The figure revealed his face when he approached, pale with almost glowing eyes.

Sherlock nodded. "Moriarty."

The criminal mastermind shone a brilliantly white smile.

"Sit down, honey. My tea's getting cold."

Sherlock Holmes sat down delicately in his chair and appraised the pot of tea before him.

"Ginger? Really?"

"It's a blend. I have a bit of a cold."

"Well, _that's _obvious," said Sherlock, and poured himself a cup. At the same time, he was asking himself why he had decided to meet with Moriarty again. He looked through the sweet steam of his beverage at how much his nemesis had changed since the fall.

"Lost half a stone. Sleeping only about four hours a night. And you've become a vegetarian?"

"I'm doing _fabulously_," Moriarty replied. "Thanks for asking."

"I would apologize if it wasn't true," said Holmes with a shrug, and sipped his tea.

Moriarty's eyes pierced his own. "And you—you're looking pretty good for a dead man."

"No thanks to you."

The other man laughed. "I admit it—I was responsible for one of your greatest plays."

"Only because I saw through your own."

James Moriarty stood up abruptly, anger flashing in streaks upon his face. Every muscle in his body stood out, the veins in his neck twitching. Holmes sat calmly and sipped more tea.

"You will only ever be _half_ the genius that I am. Do you understand me? Half the—" It was at this moment that Moriarty sneezed.

"Bless you," said Holmes, stifling laughter.

Moriarty sighed in deep frustration and flung himself back into the chair. "I'm sorry. I haven't been myself lately. Just haven't been sleeping."

"I know. I mentioned that earlier."

"Oh, shut up. Goodness me. How do your little friends stand you?"

Holmes shook his head. "They realize and appreciate my genius."

Moriarty rolled his eyes enviously. "I wish I cared about other people sometimes. And what's-his-face? Ehm . . . the little sidekick guy—Whatsit? How's he doing?"

"Watson. John Watson. I haven't seen him. Up close."

"Oh, pity. I always thought I should get myself one of those."

Holmes stirred slightly, trying not to give away how uncomfortable this particular subject was to him. "I haven't seen him since the fall. I'm trying to find an appropriate time to reveal my being alive to him."

Moriarty leaned forward. "Well, that leads into why I asked you here. I just—"

"Biscuits?" Sherlock asked.

His arch-enemy blinked, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Why not?"

Sherlock slid out of his seat smoothly and headed for the counter, leaving Moriarty with a quizzical look on his face. While he was up, Holmes was careful not to give away the movement of his left hand as it snatched his mobile phone from a coat pocket and sent a text to Lestrade.

He ordered a plate of chocolate biscuits and returned and silently as he left. Moriarty appeared listless, gazing half-distractedly to one side.

"Biscuits!" Sherlock exclaimed cheerily.

Jolting slightly from his reverie, Moriarty came back to the present and his eyes squinted, watching Sherlock's every movement.

Just before Holmes brought the tea cup to his lips, Moriarty said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Sherlock paused. "Oh?"

A slight grin uncurled from the other man's lips, Grinch-ish and unnverving. "While you were gone, I switched around the tea cups and poisoned one of them."

"Really?"

"No," Moriarty groaned, and sank back into his seat. "I was just joking."

Sherlock sipped his tea and picked up the plate of biscuits.

"Would you like one? I didn't have time to poison them."

Like a small child having to finish his plate, Moriarty complied. Sherlock had a strange epiphany: if Moriarty could cry, his eyes would be filling with tears. It was strange: he rarely thought of others' emotions.

"I want you to join me," said Moriarty at last, wiping the crumbs from his side of the table.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in surprise. If anything, the sleuth had expected Moriarty to plea for more time before Sherlock went public, or to find some way to assassinate him again. He had never suspected any request as simple—or as contradicting as this.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, without blinking. "I don't work for murderers."

Moriarty leaned forward. "I've been thinking about this a lot, old man. It's the only way. Don't tell me that you don't enjoy the cases . . . the thrill!"

"The thrill of killing?" Sherlock added dryly. "You're mistaking my love for mystery with your love."

"And what is that?"

Sherlock leaned forward, hushing his voice to a cold whisper. "Madness."

The tension was so thick that both of them jumped slightly when Moriarty's phone went off. Sherlock smirked at the ring tone.

"Islands in the Stream?"

"I like the Bee Gees!" said Moriarty, and quickly answered the call. "Why are you calling me? I can't talk right now. Well, did you feed her the right kind? She can't eat salmon! She coughs it up. Okay. Okay. Fix this. Bye."

Sherlock asked a question with his eyes alone.

"It's a very long and fluffy story," said Moriarty.

At that point, a barista brought another steaming pot of tea over. Moriarty was about to reach for it, but Sherlock waved him away gently. "It's for someone else."

There was a brief pause before Moriarty leaned forward, his ears pricked like a dog's. Sherlock had heard the sirens thirty seconds before, barely perceptible, but floating on the air as they approached closer to the café.

The other man's face held a look of complete incredulity. "You called the police on me?"

Sherlock said, "I could have reminded them to turn off the sirens."

Moriarty was already on his feet, buttoning his coat, straightening a green scarf, and pulling his cap down low. He smiled grimly. "Thanks for that, my dear."

Sherlock shrugged. "You always love running."

Moriarty leaned over Sherlock, shaking his head. Sherlock perceived that the color had returned to the other man's cheeks, and he looked alive for the first time since he had seen him that day.

"And you—Sherlock—you love the chase!"

With that, he was gone.

In a few seconds, the sound of sirens was thick and chirping around the area, scattering patrons and causing some to go to the windows, wondering what was going on. Little did they know that the commotion was not centered at the shop across the street, but in the very business they occupied.

Sherlock met Lestrade at the door, anxious for the first time that day. The older man looked tired and Sherlock knew that he hadn't had a stellar breakfast. That was a shame.

"Is he here?" Holmes asked the Inspector.

"Yes," said Lestrade, and then he moved aside.

John Watson stood amidst the screaming sirens and multicolored lights of the police cars, like a lost kitten in a carnival. When his eyes fell on Sherlock, the sleuth didn't quite know if Watson would faint or punch him in the face.

Luckily, he did neither.

"Sherlock . . ." Watson turned pale. "I never thought I would see you again. I—"

Holmes stepped forward and took his friend's arm gently. Beside him, Lestrade sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Come inside, Watson. There's a pot of tea waiting for us, and I have much to tell you."


End file.
